


Wheel of Westeros: Book One Rise of Jon Part Six

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [31]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Barrowton, Castle Black (A Song of Ice and Fire), F/M, Pen Pals, Sansa Stark Needs a Hug, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Seventy-Nine Sentinels, Sibling Bonding, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), Torrhen's Square, White Harbor (A Song of Ice and Fire), Winterfell, Wolf's Den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29117445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Jon sets out to Torrhen's Square to retrieve Val and avert disaster, and meets a comforting spirit in White Harbor. He runs into Arya, and their separate missions converge as brother and sister do some long-awaited bonding. Sansa seeks passage from the darkness at Winterfell, and discovers something eerie going on, as does Lord Commander Jaime Lannister on his way out of a strangely disappearing Castle Black. Sorry this one is so long...I really am trying to keep them short.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Val, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Wheel of Westeros [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 34
Kudos: 13





	Wheel of Westeros: Book One Rise of Jon Part Six

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book One: Rise of Jon Part Six**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Jon

“Hail Chieftain of Bastards!”

Jon hadn’t known what to expect when the ship docked in White Harbor, but this was the last he could have imagined. “Welcome to the Harbor Jon Snow,” said a banner of ragged linen, the giant words painted in black tar that glimmered in the late morning sun. Others in the crowd that gathered at the mouth of the White Knife raised patched and frayed emblems on rough spun cloth of the white wolf on black, and Jon spied white falcons and white trout as well. Wyman Manderly had invited Jon to come to his city many times, promising a royal welcome to be sure, but Jon had no idea that the fat old lord took the title “Defender of the Dispossessed” quite so seriously. He remained cautious, keeping one hand firmly on his sword hilt, but smiled and waved at the crowd of merchants, armed sentinels, and grubby children so bundled up they looked like fattened seals that greeted him and the men. Many of them gasped in awe at the sight of Ghost standing beside Jon, and parents clutched children against their bodies. At the end of the pier, Ser Marlon Manderly waited to greet him, looking significantly less happy to see them.

White Harbor was aptly named, Jon saw, especially in the steady, blowing snow that had started to swirl about them as soon as the _Silver Wolf_ made berth. The slate-roofed houses and buildings were constructed of smooth white stone, as were the cobbled streets. With a layer of soft fluffy snow, the whole place looked like a blank white page dotted with a few inky windows and glimmering yellow torches. The hearth fires and street torches reflected everything, making the entire place sparkle and glow. The odor of fish and seawater that crowded Jon’s nose was broken by smells of lamp oil, dark beer, stews cooking, molten silver, whores, and seabirds. The sounds of the birds and fishmongers calling mixed itself with the cheery applause of red-cheeked townsfolk and the clanging of the harbor bells, and beneath that, the clinking and sizzling of a nearby smithy. The sound and stink of people overwhelmed it all – Jon had never heard or smelled anything quite like it. The biggest city he had ever been to was Wintertown, and that was nowhere near the scope of this. It made Jon dizzy, exhilarated. King hopped excitedly upon his shoulder and squawked, _corn, corn!_

As Marlon led him and the men through the streets toward the Wolf’s Den, Jon felt like a child being dragged along by an impatient father. Marlon was very large and very surly, though he had asked how they fared on their voyage politely enough. _The winds were kind,_ Jon told him. At first, however, the trip had been the height of misery for him. It had been Jon’s first sail of such length – he hardly remembered the brief trip from Eastwatch to Skagos, during which his brain was all turmoil after Hard Home. This time they sailed south from the mouth of the Weeping Water around the Grey Cliff and into the Bite, and not long after they left the shore well behind them, he had gotten sick. The sea was choppy, and as much as he tried to grow sea legs, he was soon leaning over the railing and vomiting into the water. _Just breathe deep breaths through your nose,_ Satin had told him. _Look out at the horizon, not at the sails._ Satin’s advice had been somewhat helpful, but they had rounded Widow’s Watch before Jon stopped throwing up. Ghost had handled it much more bravely. Jon was not looking forward to crossing the Narrow Sea.

The Wolf’s Den was a dark looming scar upon the pristine white of the town, a crumbling massive castle with an air of doom and suffering. It functioned mainly as a prison, but there was a godswood within its walls, which according to Lord Marlon featured a heart tree so huge that its limbs had passed through numerous walls and windows. Jon remembered learning from Maester Luwin how slavers from the Step Stones had captured the castle when Edrick Stark was King in the North, and how when the hard winter came, Brandon Stark, who they called “Ice Eyes,” took it back, stripping the slavers naked and giving them to the slaves they had chained up. As an offering to the Old Gods, they had hung their entrails in the branches of that same heart tree.[1] Jon thought Daenerys Targaryen would like that story. Perhaps when they got to New Castle, he would write her a letter. As they passed the Den on their way to the seat of House Manderly, Jon felt something strange come over him…a voice that seemed to cry out from both inside and outside of him. Ghost must have felt it too, for the fur along his spine stood on end, and his ears twitched wildly backward and forward.

They ascended the magnificent Castle Stair and soon arrived at the Castle. Once the men were set up with lodging – some in tents in the courtyard and some in the guest keep – they were invited to dine in the great hall called Merman’s Court. They feasted upon lamprey stew with mussels, lobster tails in garlic cream sauce, pickled herring with sourdough bread, thin slabs of smoked salmon, stuffed crab, boiled whitefish and blackened codsteaks – last indulgence, for the rest of the journey they would be on the edge of starving. Ghost got his own platter piled high with fishheads, entrails, chunks of seal meat and even a couple of raw, plucked partridges. The hall was a marvel to behold – the floor, walls and ceiling painted and carved with detailed seascapes, including a great kraken carved behind the dais. As Jon ate, he could swear it winked at him. Kegs of an excellent black beer from a brewhouse outside the Wolf’s Den were tapped, and soon Jon and his men were quite drunk.

After the fourth tankard, Jon became giddy, on-edge. The voice he had felt seemed to be calling louder. He strained against the drunken laughter and clanking of tankards and trenchers to hear what it was saying. What it sounded like Jon could scarcely believe, so he at first tried to dismiss it, but then it came again clearly. _Beloved_ , it was saying. _Beloved_ …Jon looked and saw that Ghost heard it too. The giant direwolf lowered his head and raised his tail, asking silent permission to seek out the source of the sound. Jon let him go, transferring his own thoughts to his wolf, then grabbed a torch and followed him as the men parted to let him through. Ghost led him through a couple of dark corridors, then down a long turret stair, at the bottom of which they found a door too small for Ghost to fit through. Jon tested the latch and found it unlocked. Ghost poked his head in and sniffed, whining. The voice echoed against the stones within the passageway.

 _Beloved_.

Jon followed the narrow passage for what seemed like a mile, the voice guiding him along in the quiet dark. The shadow he cast against the walls looked to be of three men, with faces elongated. The smell that assaulted his nose was of decay, singed cobwebs, rusty iron, and ancient pain. Finally, a door appeared before him, slightly ajar. When he opened it, he knew immediately he was in the Wolf’s Den. The smell of prisoners poured into his nostrils: their sweat, their moldering bread, their waste, and their suffering. He heard them moaning with hunger and cold, shouting in anger and for mercy, rotting from the inside out. _Beloved. Wolf king…come_. A small whine arose from Jon’s throat, and he quickened his steps as he followed the voice to a stair that led him up and up, until he could see red leaves and bone-white branches poking through tiny windows between the bars. At last, he came to a gigantic set of double doors, knowing on the other side grew the godswood. Jon had seen a heart tree of such magnificence only once – its branches thick and winding and very very old. The face carved into the trunk was sorrowfully leaking red sap. On a branch of the tree that grew close to the ground sat the swamp spirit, but she was so faint that Jon could barely make her out. She wore a cloak with a fur-lined hood, and her long dark hair lay in her lap – that was all he could see.

“Welcome beloved, to this place of injustice and misery, and hearken quickly…”

“What is it, my lady? Tell me what you would and I will listen.”

“In Torrhen’s Square you will find the Horn of Joramun…one sounding of the horn means riders returning, two and the blood of the Freefolk will spill, three spells the end.”

“The horn is real? But what you speak of is the warhorn code of the Watch.”

“That’s right…my beloved…beloved…”

The word echoed and was carried away in the wind as the spirit disappeared. Jon called for her to return, but she was gone. He let tears spill from his eyes, as there was no one to see. Every time he saw the swamp spirit he had first glimpsed at Moat Cailin, she told him something true. He wished she would stay and tell him more, but what she spoke of was always something immediate – something just ahead of him. When she left, he always felt sad and empty, and he longed for her to return. In the end, he knew she would be there just as she was needed, and that comforted him.

The next day they marched from White Harbor east, Jon riding at the front with Ghost beside him and King upon his shoulder. Jon’s mind was still on the spirit two days later when they came upon the Kings Road and made their way toward the Salt Spear. Three riders appeared, and for a moment, Jon was sure their leader was the spirit. She was female, and when she greeted them and removed her hood, she seemed to be the very image of the spirit who had been his guide. However, in a moment, Jon realized. _Arya!_ They both practically flew from their horses and crashed together, embracing.

Chapter 2: Sansa

“Come your grace…please. Wake up…you must wake up,” Randa Royce was keening.

“I am awake,” Sansa said, sniffling and stuffing the hand mirror under her pillow.

“But you must get out of bed and have breakfast, my queen…it is nearly midday!”

Sansa lifted her head from the pillow to glance at the window. It let in the weakest sunlight, all covered as it was with frosted ice crystals. Randa brought the tray to the bed as Sansa pulled herself upright – boiled oats with molasses and raisins. It was all she could bear to eat in the mornings, since a raven brought news of Harrold’s death.

“Brother Sandor wishes an audience, your grace…shall I tell him you’re still indisposed?”

Sansa straightened her nightcap, brushing her hair behind her ears, suddenly wide awake. “What does Brother Sandor want…did he say?”

“Only that he wished to speak with you about spiritual matters.”

Sansa stared silently at the glass in the corner of the room. Her hair was wildly unkempt and her face was pale and grey. Randa seemed to read her mind.

“Why don’t you have Brother Sandor to supper, your grace,” Randa said. She placed a knowing hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “He’s been such a help, and I could have the cook make something from the larders. Something other than beans…”

“Yes, do that, Randa please…and come help me dress after luncheon won’t you?”

Randa beamed. “I’d love that, my queen.” She leaned over and gave Sansa a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll tell him right away.”

Then as usual, she left Sansa with her oats, closing the door behind her.

Each day it seemed Sansa slept a little longer than the day before and each day grew colder and icier. After she ate a few bites, she would wrap herself in her wool cloak and slide on a pair of fur boots, then creep across the hall to the nursery where the hearth would be nice and hot. Sometimes little Snowberry, her niece, would be in the arms of Fern, the Wildling woman Osha had found, nursing. Other times she lay in her crib smothered in furs, muttering little cries to be fed or changed. At the first opportunity, Sansa would take up the little bundle and sit with her in the nursing chair, waving Fern away that she might listen in solitude to the infant’s soft breathing and warbling, and breathe in the smell of her silky skin. A layer of soft brown curls had begun to grow on her tiny head, and when she had warmed her fingers enough at the fire, the queen would gently comb through it with her fingertips while singing to her.

 _While you are away…my heart comes undone…slowly unravels…like a ball of yarn…devils collect it with a grin…_ _they’ll never return it_ … _so when you come back we’ll have to weave new love_ …[2]

For as long as she could she would remain alone with Snowberry until, inevitably, her ladies would pour in, one after another, chattering and giggling and demanding to hold the baby, to help change her and wash her, or to play peek-a-boo with her upon their knees. Her peace broken, Sansa would return to her chambers and knit booties and onesies for Snowberry beside her own hearth until her eyes began to burn. She ignored the knocks of her ladies inviting her to luncheon or asking what to do about some problem in the castle or another.

Her rule was crumbling before her. The Northern Lords did not respect her – that was clear. The Dustins and Ryswells and their retainers had marched out to expel Val the Wildling princess and her host from Torrhen’s Square, despite her entreating them to let Jon Snow resolve the situation. Both Jon and Arya had refused to return to Winterfell, and with Petyr “missing” and Harrold gone, she had little help managing the castle. The kitchen and scullery were in chaos, and the rebuilding process had all but come to a halt. She had received reports of fighting between the river folk and Northern folk making their way south to escape the Others and their army. Robb’s war had already drained much of the food from the Riverlands, and the smallfolk therein were not happy to host an influx of heathens who would only put further strain on their resources. The knights of the Vale had also begun to abandon Sansa, after news of Harrold’s burning by the Stoneheart Brotherhood reached their lords. Nestor Royce had been acting as a kind of steward, but he too was making noises about returning to the Gates of the Moon. Finally, and worst of all, Queen Myrcella was demanding Sansa’s surrender in exchange for the wildfire they needed to fight the army of the dead. Her life would be spared, and she would be as a hostage in the Red Keep – tossed back into the hell wherein she’d lived as a girl after her father was executed. Sansa would rather die than return to that place, and yet it seemed more and more that she was running out of choices. Soon enough, she must surrender the North to her bastard brother and put an end to all that was left of her mother – that ghoul called Lady Stoneheart.

For now, she took what moments of peace she could, retiring at night to her bed and the hand mirror that Euron Greyjoy had given her in a dream. She could not sleep without it, and it beckoned her to consult it whenever she considered sending a raven to Jon that he might get her out of this mess. She laid down and held it up to her face upon the pillow, gazing at her reflection, clutching the mother-of-pearl handle and running her fingers along the blue and purple seashells that bordered the glass. The reflection castigated her sharply for even considering surrender. _The North, the Riverlands and the Vale are yours, and the Rock is too! You tell Myrcella Lannister to be_ your _hostage and maybe she can have Casterly Rock back! The Others take Jon Snow as well! A bastard cannot be king in the North…maybe you should remind him he’s lucky you don’t send our bannermen to run out those Wildlings…Lord knows they would be happy to do it! If the Riverfolk won’t share bread with our people, then let them blame their demon god for their hunger…they won’t know the difference! Curse the lords of the Vale! You’re the one who suffered beneath their filthy, philandering rake of an heir! You earned that pile of stones!_ The more ugly words came out of the reflection’s lips, however, the more beautiful she looked – her eyes as blue as the sea and bluer, her hair like polished copper, her skin like the smoothest porcelain, her lips heart-shaped and flowery pink. A far cry from the steely-pale, disheveled and red-eyed mess she really had become.

Today was different, however. Begging Brother Sandor Clegane, her only true friend besides her ladies and guards, was going to have supper with her. She had felt so lonely without Harrold and Petyr – as much as she had reason to despise them both. She even found herself thinking about Tyrion Lannister now and then, and how kind he had been to her. Had things gone differently, she might be living quietly at the Rock with him, raising a babe of her own blood. Mostly, however, she thought of Sandor, and the time he had cornered her in her room at the Red Keep – the smell of wine on his breath, the sadness in his voice, the heat from his skin as he leaned into her. Now he was a man of the Faith, and probably wished to turn her back to the Seven and away from R’hllor, which made no difference to Sansa one way or another – she just wanted to talk to him.

After some deliberation, Sansa and her ladies decided on the samite gown in Stark grey, with dragonglass beads at the collar and fish scales sewn into the bodice with Tully blue thread. Jeyne Poole braided her hair in two long plaits down the middle of her back, and placed the silver tiara with blue-grey pearls and white downy feathers on top of her head. When Bess had finished her nails, and Randa had hung the pearl drops that Harrold had given her in her ears, she called her ladies to her in a circle and bid them hold her hands.

“I want you all to know how grateful I am for every one of you,” she said. “When this dark time is over, I promise I will remember how loyally you served me. You will not be sorry for having faith in me.” She squeezed every lady’s hand in turn.

They all kissed her cheek before departing. Afterward, the cooks brought to Sansa’s salon a supper of baked turnips and mushrooms in a creamy wine sauce, warm buttered oat bread, a sweet squash and onion soup, a little mound of soft white goat cheese and dried figs, and a slow-cooked goat roast with potatoes and carrots. For dessert, a plate of tiny lemon cakes and apple tarts waited along with a carafe of steaming hot lavender tea – but no honey, unfortunately. Brother Sandor arrived looking humble as usual despite his massive size, wearing his roughspun grey robe with the hood still pulled over his head. He ordered the skinny brown and white terrier he had adopted, aptly named “Pupper,” to sit and stay in the hall as he entered. Of late, it seemed stray dogs could be found everywhere. The servant girl Maddy poured a cup of wine for both him and the queen and departed. Sansa smiled widely for the first time it seemed in weeks, and invited Sandor to sit.

“You needn’t have done all this, your grace,” he said, taking his chair. “I would have eaten a stack of pickles and a trencher of beans without bitching.”

“I know you would have,” said Sansa. “Sandor, take off your hood…please.”

“Just mark that you asked for it.” He removed the hood, revealing the hideous burn scar that ravaged the left side of his face. “Hate to kill your appetite…Gods know you’re wasting away as it is, your grace.”

“Do you think so?”

“What happens when all you eat is boiled oats.” He took a healthy bite of goat meat as he spoke. “You ought to be stuffing your gut. Winter is coming…isn’t that what you Starks say, your grace?”

“One ‘your grace’ is enough, Sandor. When you say it over and over it sounds…”

“False.”

“Something like that. Brother Sandor…” She wanted to ask him about his scar and the brother who gave it to him. She wanted to ask about Arya and their travels. She wanted to ask about that night in the Red Keep. However, she suddenly found herself dumb.

“What is it, then?” Sandor asked.

“Nothing…it’s…Lady Randa said you wished to speak to me about spiritual matters.”

“Oh that was just some rubbish I said to get an audience with you.”

“Oh? You mean you don’t wish to revert me?”

“Where’s Littlefinger, your grace?”

Sansa blinked in surprise. “How should I know? He went missing during the storm as Mord and Shadrich say.”

Sandor said nothing and for the longest time just looked at her. Sansa felt her face redden.

“I happened to love Petyr…Lord Baelish,” she stammered. “I am queen because of his efforts. I survived because of him, just like my sister survived because of you.”

Sandor snorted. “That little bitch would have survived even Bolton. Baelish, on the other hand…he did harm to you, and so did Harrold.”

“Brother Sandor, I am sure I don’t know what you’re getting at and I think you might be forgetting yourself!”

“I remember myself just fine. If it’s fine by your grace, why don’t we cut out the horseshit? All right, so your loyal subjects don’t understand what you’re going through right now…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think I know exactly what you’re going through. I think I know you better than anyone in this shitty realm.”

“You know nothing!” Sansa stood up, her teeth bared, her fist balled up at her sides.

“I know you don’t sleep at night. I know you hide between your cell and that babe’s nursery. I know you think there’s no goodness in the world…that there’s no point in doing what’s right when you’ll only be punished for it.”

 _Lord…lord it is true._ Sansa felt exhausted suddenly. She sat back down in her chair hard. “I always try,” she said. “I try to be good, but I’m not. I’m rotten inside. Every time I try to do the right thing…try to make the world a better place…something terrible appears in me and pulls me back down into hell…” Tears sprang to her eyes as she fixed her stare on the window through which the wind had begun to howl. She thought she could hear the voice in the hand mirror and its horrible words ringing through it. Feathers of frost seemed to spread over the panes before her eyes. Sandor rose from his chair and stood before her, then knelt down at her feet.

“Every night that something terrible takes me deeper and deeper into the darkest nightmare,” Sansa said, a sob catching in her throat. “…and every time it gets harder to go back to the light…”[3]

Sandor took her hand in his. The whole of her hand disappeared in it completely, so vast was the grasp of that hand. “Pray with me,” he said. “Not to this red god, this god of fire – to the real gods. The gods of your mother. Your _real_ mother – as she once was.”

Sansa nodded and closed her eyes.

That night, she took the hand mirror from its hiding place, and smashed it over and over again on the cold stone floor. The cold had made the glass brittle, and tiny shards flew in every direction, so she was forced to call Maddy in to sweep up the mess. All night she tossed and turned in bed. She could hear dogs in the courtyard barking furiously, and when she finally slept, she dreamt that flocks of horrid black birds swarmed her and pecked out her eyes.

The next morning she woke earlier than usual, of her own accord, to the cheery sounds of sparrows and snowbirds hailing the white light of the sun. Randa and Jeyne crept in and helped her dress, noting as they usually did that the queen’s presence was requested in the courtyard about an issue with the ongoing reconstruction. Instead of ignoring them as she had been doing, Sansa allowed Jeyne to brush her hair and braid it tight, and Randa to place the ice crystal crown of glass and hematite upon her head. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her and made her way out of the Keep with her ladies in tow. The giant Wun-Wun, who remained the better part of Sansa’s royal guard, followed dutifully behind them.

As soon as they stepped outside into the crisp winter air, she noticed. The construction that she believed had halted was in fact underway, apparently progressing so quietly she hadn’t heard it. Lord Nestor Royce stood looking at it dumbfounded, remembering to bow as Sansa approached. The library was almost completely rebuilt, as were the south towers and the greenhouse. The work was perfect, and the stonework looked as strong as it ever had. A soft snow fell onto Sansa’s hair and eyelashes as she peered up in awe at the newly built Winterfell – now almost the picture of the castle it had once been.

“Why I don’t believe it,” she said. “The work is beautiful. You must bring the foreman to my salon for an audience at once. He deserves some reward, as do his men.”

“Your grace,” Lord Royce said, “The foreman and most of the builders have long departed. They left soon after Lord Baelish’s disappearance.”

“I don’t understand,” said Sansa. “Who has taken up the work in their absence, then?”

“No one, your grace,” Royce said, his voice trembling. “The castle is _rebuilding itself!”_

Chapter 3: Lord Commander Kingslayer

Castle Black was disappearing. Board by board, stone by stone, piece by piece. There was no explanation for it. Now Jaime stood in one of the only cells that still had its roof, staring down at a map of the realm with Ulmer and Bedwyck beside him. The dead were waiting at the edge of the Haunted Forest – legions of them. The Watch was down to eighty men. Jaime knew as well as any of them that they could no longer do any more good there than if they sat stroking each other’s cocks. They had to abandon the Wall. Whatever magic was dismantling the castles along the Wall would hopefully not follow them, as they moved south and manned Jon Snow’s barrier, or the “Snow Wall,” as the men were now calling it. It was no wall of snow, certainly – but a wall of wood and tinder piled high in such a way that it would burn and burn. The men of the Watch would soon go down and join the remaining laborers sent by the Dragon Queen, and following a series of signals, use wildfire to light the structure as soon as the Others and their army of wights drew near – and eventually, they would.

There were two major pinch points in the northern parts of the realm – one at Moat Cailin, now abandoned, and one at the crossing, where the Twins stood. If the North could hold Moat Cailin, and the Brotherhood could hold the Twins, the dead might be drawn in and destroyed with the use of some carefully placed pots of wildfire. Jon Snow had sent a raven declaring his intent to cross the Narrow Sea and bring back the Dragons, who might make driving the dead into a trap possible. Jaime considered that it may be his duty to go back to King’s Landing, and wrest the wildfire from his daughter and Cersei. Ulmer, a stooped veteran of the Watch with a long grey beard, and Bedwyck, a short man with the agility of a shadowcat, agreed that it was time to move. Jaime had set the other men to packing supplies: food, tools, rope, weapons, furs, oil, ale, animals, and whatever gold was left into wagons for the journey. When they left, the Wall would be completely unmanned for the first time in thousands of years. Once the plans were agreed upon, they sent a last raven to Winterfell to inform Sansa Stark.

At twilight, Jaime awoke to a blistering cold and Ulmer’s panicked whispering in his ear. Jaime opened his eyes slowly, forgetting for the moment where he was. In his dreams, he had been sparring with Arya Stark in the godswood at Winterfell. He had both his hands again, but Lady Arya was still besting him. In the dream, he was fighting for his life, for as soon as their match was over, her ladyship was to take his head. At last he’d gotten the upper hand, and taking her off her guard, he stabbed her through her frozen heart. However, no sooner had she fallen face first into the snow, than she rose to her feet again – her eyes vacant and glowing bright blue.

“Commander…wake yourself. You’d better come see this…”

Jaime shook his head and reached for his golden hand, only to find it so cold it burned his fingers. A purple glow of twilight filled the cell, and he realized immediately that an entire wall and much of the roof had disappeared in the night. Snow and ice crystals grew along the floor and up the legs of his cot, and the basin of water beside him had frozen solid.

“The men are loading up and the horses are nearly ready,” Ulmer said. “I’d say we’d best ride out now.”

“I think we should have time for a small fire and breakfast, don’t you? We’ll need our strength to make it to the Snow Wall in good time…”

“The men are bloody uneasy and I’ll show you the reason why…”

Jaime yanked on his boots, pulled his cloak around him and donned his wool cap, wondering what the devil the old outlaw was on about. He followed him out to where the men were lined up with the horses and wagons loaded, the breaths of men and animals encircling their heads in steamy clouds. They were oddly silent – normally Jaime would have expected the usual shouts and japes and ribbing, especially for the way it distracted a man from the punishment of the cold. But the men only moved with startling quickness, glancing up to where the castle’s rude ramparts once were and then nervously looking back down again. Ulmer placed a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, and with the other pointed to where the men kept staring with anxious, affrighted faces.

The ramparts had disappeared bit by bit like the rest several nights ago, leaving only a shadow. Now standing in that shadow were close to eighty men – only they were not of flesh and bone. Their flesh and bones were gone just as the wood and stone of the ramparts was gone. The unnaturally tall figures that stood watch on ramparts of nothing, the ghosts of spears at their sides, were as translucent as spider webbing, their eyes as white and empty as wind. Only the whisper of what might have been their faces could be discerned, as could the reanimated skeletons beneath. They glowed in the fading dark like jellyfish floating in the sea, unmoved and undaunted by the snows that blew around their ancient heads.

Chapter Four: Jon

“I don’t _know_ that Val has the horn,” Arya said. “All I know is it was in two pieces, in the salon, and when Val walked out, I saw that it was gone.” 

“She has it,” said Jon. “And if Sam’s message means what I think it does, she means to use it. Let’s just hope it’s still in halves.”

They had been riding along with Jon’s men, and Arya’s companions Anguy the archer and Edric Dayne, for two days west toward Barrowton in relatively gentle weather for the time of year. Not much snow had fallen since the storm, other than a swirl that would kick up at random before dissolving. The air at times grew so bitterly cold that Jon felt his eyes and lips beginning to freeze shut, then it would suddenly grow milder again, so that the dripping of water from icicles in the pines could be heard along with the footsteps of their mounts. Before meeting Jon on the Kings Road, Arya had been travelling north in pursuit of a platoon of men from the Brotherhood Without Banners under Lady Stoneheart, hoping to stop them from descending on The Dreadfort and ambushing Jon and his family with their hanging ropes. However, she had lost them not far outside of White Harbor.

Jon had been so glad to see his little sister, he had forgotten for a moment how angry he was. He told her that very night, as they camped along the river that ran off from the Salt Spear, that he had mistaken her for a spirit that had been communicating with him for months. That was when Arya told him about Val and the horn which, a letter from Samwell Tarly seemed to imply, was more than it seemed. The next day Jon’s anger had returned in full force, and he wasn’t much for conversation. He was angry at Val for defying him and putting herself and their daughter in grave danger, and at Sansa for taking Winterfell and giving a crown to that that pile of shit Harrold Arryn – though at least he could no longer do any harm. Most painful was a lingering anger in his gut directed at his brother Robb. He loved him still, and mourned him, but wondered what Robb had been at, making him a king but leaving him a bastard. Had he legitimized him, Sansa would have no claim. Had he left the North to Sansa, the worst would have been that Tyrion Lannister would rule the North, which in retrospect couldn’t be worse than giving it to the Boltons. Jon knew that the North was his responsibility, his duty – but it meant he had more enemies than ever. A king was always in danger – and his family with him.

He felt more whole with Arya near, and the first night they camped, they stayed up through the night talking by the fire under a bright full moon while the men slept crammed in their tents. Ghost had gorged himself on prey and came to lay by the fire, providing brother and sister with a giant pillow against which they might warm their backs. When Jon could hear the men snoring, he reached into the pack that had been strapped to his horse and presented Arya with the lock box in which he kept Daenerys Targaryen’s letters. He hadn’t let anyone read or even see them – the intelligence they represented was more valuable than gold.

“She’s quite the writer,” Arya said. “She _sounds_ like a queen.”

_Queen!_ King squawked, before Jon shushed him.

“It may be a scribe who does her letters for her – I’m not sure,” said Jon.

“She sounds like a true killer as well. A dangerous one who means death for anyone who crosses her.”

“Yes, I too like her very much…”[4]

The latest letter from her had arrived just before they departed from the Dreadfort.

_Dear Jon Snow,_

_I was sorry indeed to hear of your difficulties with House Karstark, and given what you’ve told me about the perils of your reign, I do hope that you will answer this letter soon, that I may know you and your men have come out of the conflict safely. I fear for the North if you should fall, as Sansa should as well._

_I am deeply humbled by the extent of forgiveness and mercy you have shown in response to your sister’s betrayal. I too have chosen forgiveness when I may not have, and your sweet words in defense of your sister have moved me. Not only will I continue to send food and supplies to Winterfell, I will go further._

_Because I so hope to meet you upon my own shores soon, I am willing to send ships to the Westerosi shore of your preference for your conveyance across the Narrow Sea. You will like to know that Lord Stannis has joined my war council (speaking of forgiveness) and I have named him a captain in my royal guard. I hope the two of you may speak soon. On the same note, I have taken in a new fool for the entertainment of my hostages who can fart on command. My little boys are enchanted by him, and I think Rickon would enjoy him as well, don’t you?_

_I await anxiously your reply and pray that the Lord of Light will lead you and your warriors out of the darkness._

_Sincerely,_

_D._

_P.S. Ser Davos Seaworth wishes me to send his love to Ser Devan his son, and should your next letter contain word of his well-being, his father would be greatly obliged._

“What did you say to her?” Arya asked when she had finished reading.

“She wants to take Rickon as a hostage,” Jon said solemnly.

“So I read.”

“She usually talks more of her own situation, too.”

“You think she’s not telling you something?”

“I think she may be in trouble…”

The next morning, they ate a meager breakfast of squirrel and rabbit before setting out. “Listen to me, little sister,” Jon said when they had been riding for some time. “When

this is over, whatever happens, I need you to do something.”

“Anything, your grace,” said Arya.

“Leave out the ‘your grace’ business. I’m no king now.”

“Whatever you say big brother.”

Jon sighed. They rode ahead of the others, including Anguy, a skinny redheaded bowman from the Dornish Marches with a razor for a tongue, and Edric, the Lord of Starfall, a blonde-haired youth of an age with Arya with a sweet nature and a charming wit. Both were obviously in love with Arya – and why not? She had become a lovely young woman after her travels, some of which she told Jon about, and others she did not. Her mousey brown hair had grown dark and shiny, and her skinny arms and legs had become graceful and lithe. She could cook and keep the kitchen as well as any servant, and she loved children. He had noticed that when she had first come back to Winterfell – and the feeling was mutual. She wasn’t offended by dirty nappies or skinned knees, either, and had shown she knew exactly what to do in both situations.

“I’m going to surrender the North to Sansa. I want you to take Val and my daughter south with you,” Jon said. “Take the nurse, and I’ll send with you with the giant Dok Tor, and some of my men.”

“To the Crossroads?” Arya asked, surprised.

“Yes – and further. As far south as you can safely go. To Dorne if need be, to keep my family safe. I’ll lend you Pypar, and Edd Tollett, and Lyanna Mormont.”

“I don’t need the giant, or Edd, Pyp and Lady Mormont, Jon. I have the Hollow Hill Brotherhood. And I have you. Do you mean that you won’t come south with us?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m going across the Sea to convince Daenerys to join our fight. I’m bringing my Freefolk warriors with me that Sansa will not harm them.”

Arya look shocked. “Are you sure? As much as she seems to like you, she is the Mad King’s daughter.”

“Daenerys’s charity is the only reason our people stay fed, or I wouldn’t do it. I have the feeling she’s trapped in Volantis at the point of a sword. She’s promised to fight the Others when the time comes, and…other things.”

“Will you see dragons then?” Arya’s eyes were wide.

“See them, and hopefully bring them back with me. And if we survive this war, I may end up with the North as well.”

“As warden? Or as king?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

Jon felt a sinkhole of sorrow open up in his gut. He had been avoiding this conversation with Arya for months, but she had the right to know what he was thinking, if she was to take charge of his family. “Arya, when the Great War has ended, I’m afraid that my life may be forfeit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know what tales you’ve heard about what happened to me at the Wall, but the truth is I died, Arya. I am a ghost, here to haunt the North until the danger has passed.”

“You aren’t a ghost, Jon. You’re alive. I can see your breath steaming in the cold. Saw you suck down a whole trout out of the pan. Ghosts don’t eat or breathe.”

“I am alive – now. But I fear that when the Others are gone from the earth, I will be too. I think I was brought back by the Old Gods to fight their final battle, and to die in it.”

Arya’s eyes grew wet then, and she turned away, wiping them with a gloved finger.

“I _feel_ alive,” Jon continued. “In fact, I feel more alive than I did before my brothers killed me. I’ve become as much wolf as man. I want to plan for the future, remember the past, but I’m often seized by the present. Sounds, smells, sensations overwhelm me and it can be so hard to think. But I sense that soon Ghost will be all that’s left of me.” Arya looked at him then, and though she didn’t speak, Jon thought she saw some understanding – a recognition in her grey eyes that were so much like his own.

They said no more until they decided to make camp not far outside of Barrowton. In the flatlands, they could look far into the distance and see the lights of the town like a tiny twinkling campfire. Jon and Arya dismounted and signaled to the men that they were stopping, and before the others joined them, he said to her, “I remember when the Night’s Watch fought the Freefolk at the Battle at Castle Black. I would lay down to sleep at night and dream of fighting, and then wake up and fight, and then lay down and dream of fighting,[5] until dreams and the waking world looked exactly the same. Sometimes I think I am still doing that, dreaming and then waking, and I never know which. Sometimes I think I am still in my cell at the Wall, dreaming a terrible dream. That sometime soon, I will wake up, and I won’t have been Lord Commander, or dead, or a father, or King in the North. Other times I wonder if I ever left home at all, or if I ever left that pit they burned me in…”

Arya came to him then and threw her arms around him, holding him tight. “You’re here big brother, and so am I. We’re real, and your family’s real, and I promise anyone who harms them will die regretting it.”

Jon put his arms around his little sister and returned the hug, letting a tear fall onto the fur of her cloak. She smelled of blood, boiled leather, black pepper and something else – another scent just at the edge of knowing. He breathed deep, and realized the smell was himself.

Chapter 5: Arya

Barrowton was half empty. All that remained occupied were a couple of inns: the Barrow Inn and the Longaxe Inn, a brewery called the Confluence and two grimy taverns: the Kneeling Man and the Rusty Axe. Those stubborn holdouts who had resisted the exodus south had boarded up the windows of their houses and barred their doors. The still-operating stables hadn’t been mucked out in so long, one could smell them from miles away, and rats had taken over all the market stalls. The smell of bread and ale was strongest coming from the Rusty Axe, so Arya and Satin went there first, hoping to find out what the keepers knew about the Wildling princess and her capture of Torrhen’s Square. They hadn’t expected to find the Brotherhood Without Banners warming the benches for them.

They set out on the scouting mission while Jon and the others remained at camp, Arya wearing Jon’s older blacks and the woolen cap Sansa had knitted him, along with Meryn Trant’s face. Satin went disguised as his son. Jon hadn’t wanted her to go, but he knew of her faces, and had to admit that no one would make a better scout and not just for that reason. On their way, she and Satin discovered the tracks and dung of several horses headed north, not south. Then, as they were beating the snow from their coats just inside the Axe, Arya immediately recognized the voice of Tom O’ Sevens, ringing out into the musky warm air of the tavern, where a half dozen men sat slurping ale from flagons in the dim light of the hearth.

_Last fire will rise, behind those eyes_

_Black house will rock, blind boys don't lie_

_Immortal fear, that voice so clear_

_Through broken walls, that scream I hear_

_Cry, little sister!_

_Come, come to your brother!_

_Unchain me, sister!_

_Love is with your brother! **[6]**_

Arya/Meryn seized Satin by the collar and whispered close in his ear who it was singing and strumming the harp. She recognized Jack-be-Lucky, that one-eyed son of whore, in the corner tapping his feet as well. Notch too sat to his right, his greasy yellow hair covered with a leathern cap, and three others were with them who she did not remember. She looked around but did not see her mother, the Hangwoman, anywhere.

Arya/Meryn sat at a small table at the other side of the room, close to where the freckle-faced barmaid stood scrubbing out tankards, a look of wry suspicion in her gaze at the men. She held the rag close to her waist when she finished, kneading nervously as Arya/Meryn approached. Satin remained at the table, breathing into his hands to warm them and keeping an eye on their fellow patrons.

“Who are you then stranger?” The barmaid looked Arya/Meryn up and down.

She called herself Watty of Wintertown and Satin his son Gendry. They were late to follow the exodus and had come by way of Torrhen’s Square but were spooked by some commotion around there. They hoped to find some bread and ale, as they were hungry and didn’t expected to find any humanity before the Neck. The barmaid handed Arya/Meryn two flagons full and promised fresh bread soon from the ovens.

“Wildlings have took the Square…the Snow Queen and her savages,” she said in a hushed voice. “She left the Bastard Chieftain with the babe she bore him for giving up Winterfell…” She shook her head and wrinkled her nose, and made her voice even quieter. “Fool thing. The Bastard rules the true North.”

“Hail the Chieftain,” Arya leaned forward and whispered.

The barmaid smiled. “Hail him,” she said barely within hearing, one eye on the men in the far corner, listening to Tom O’Sevens.

“Think the Bastard will take it back?” Arya pressed.

“They say Sansa sent the Ladies of the Rills and the Barrows to flush the Wildlings out…like I was telling these fellows…” She turned over an hourglass that sat in front of her and then disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she handed Arya a small board with an even pathetically smaller loaf of brown bread steaming on it, and leaned very close to whisper, “Be wary of these lot – demon-worshipers from the Riverlands come to hang anyone with ‘hail the Chieftain’ on their lips. Stay close to your boy, love…”

Arya returned to Satin with the ale and bread and informed him that Val was being pursued by the Ryswell and Dustin armies (such as they were), who were being pursued by Lady Stoneheart’s men, whom she had been pursuing. Jon would want to get to Val before any of them, but the Barrowlands were vast.

“Whatever harm they mean Jon, my mother’s anger at the Lords who knelt to Bolton is crueler – though it’s only a matter of time,” Arya said.

“At some point,” said Satin, who was chewing pensively on a heel of bread. “Your old friend Tom will put down his harp and go for a piss. You say he’s a decent sort compared to the others? You think you could bring him over?”

“He let Gendry escape Riverrun with Podrick Payne when he could have blown the whistle,” Arya said. “He’s a hell of a fighter, though. Still…he has a definite weakness.”

“Women?”

Of course Satin would know. Arya had lost access to Mercy’s face, but there was a certain unfortunate scullion named Mabel who she’d had to dispatch while working her way into the Red Keep. Mabel was Myrish, with the dark eyes and luscious lips of her folk, though she was a tad roomy through the hips. Arya didn’t have a dress to wear, but likely there were whores left in town with hips to get them through the winter.

“Gendry, my boy,” she said to Satin. “Let us look for some excitement.”

They chugged their ale and tumbled back out into the cold muddy street. The sun had long set, and they had to practically feel their way in the darkness to the horses. A ruddy light emanated from the Barrow Inn some ways down the main thoroughfare, which had now been taken over by flocks of brown sparrows and filthy pigeons. The flapping and chittering noises they made when they scattered drew out a couple of older-looking whores from the balcony of the Inn, holding lanterns that deepened their wrinkles. One had long golden hair and reminded Arya of Cersei Lannister.

She wondered, suddenly, how the Kingslayer was doing at the Wall – the man who had nearly killed Bran for lust after his own sister. It was funny how the heart changed toward a person. It would have been so easy to kill Cersei with his face. Perhaps she felt sorry for him. What he did with his sister was disgusting…he had abused her, plain and simple, and she grew to be evil because of him. Yet in their conversations together, Arya might have admitted that when she was a little girl, she’d had thoughts about Jon – about his body, when she’d chanced to see him bathing or changing for practice – that she realized were filthy. She hadn’t known what kind of thoughts they were at the time. Suppose Jon had been her same age – what might have happened then? Might he have had thoughts like she had?

“Do we have enough gold to buy an old frock?” Arya asked Satin as they tied their horses at the front of the Inn.

“For me, Father? You shouldn’t!”

Jon’s smell had been with her all evening, but it flooded into her nose now. She breathed deep. _Nothing. He would have done nothing, because it wasn’t right to do_. She threw an arm around Satin’s shoulders, and they made their way inside the Inn.

[1] Martin, George R. R., _A Dance with Dragons_ , Chapter 29, Davos IV.

[2] Bjork, “Unravel,” _Homogenic_ , Elektra, 1997.

[3] Lynch, David and Mark Frost. _Twin Peaks_ , Season 1, Episode 5: “Cooper’s Dream,” 3 May, 1990.

[4] Ritchie, Michael, _The Golden Child_ , Paramount, 1986.

[5] Martin, George R. R. _A Storm of Swords_ , Chapter 76, Jon XI.

[6] McMann, Gerard. “Cry Little Sister,” _The Lost Boys Original Motion Picture Soundtrack_ , Warner, 1987.

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.


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